Deranged Florist
by Zivandre
Summary: Hermione is just a florist, making it day by day. Flowershop!AU [Read authors note!]


_**WARNING: HAS GORE, MURDER, VARIED PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEMS, FALSE SENSE OF REALITY.**_

 _ **This is written for the first round of the Fluff VS. Angst competition.**_

 _ **TEAM ANGST!**_

 _ **Optional Prompts used: FlowerShop!AU, Orange, Depressed, Bed.**_

 _ **WC: 938**_

 _ **..**_

She loved paying attention to detail. The simple fact that her cutting shears could be so precise, so delicate when she snipped them across the flower stems made her work so much better.

She loved her flowers. How they always came in different sizes, colors, and the smells. The smells were luxurious. She bathed herself in the scents they exhibited.

She looked at her new package that had arrived, White Petunias and Orange Roses. Oh, how she loved those flowers. They had the most pleasant feel from their petals, always soft and silky under the pads of her fingers. She carefully laid the first batch down, side by side. Pulling out her shears carefully, she shined them on her apron before picking up the first stem.

 _Huh, this one's quite chunky,_ she thought. She balanced the stem precariously through her fingers, letting the shears glide up to the hilt shaving off the excess thorns on the way, before she sliced clean through. This one let out a shocking spurt of thick, sticky water. She wiped the drizzle that landed on the bust of her apron, bringing it to her lips for a taste; Sweet like nectar would be.

She set to work on the next stem, and the next, all until she had finished with the first ten. Disappointed her first set of work was done, she laid out the next batch. This set had much shorter, thinner stems. Even though the ends were much smaller, she still immensely enjoyed working with them. Worrying her lip between her teeth, she watched as her newest masterpiece came to life. She wanted this one to be completely perfect.

Once all the stems were completely sheared down, she took out her scalpel and began arranging the flowers in their display. She removed some petals completely, while she had the others over-lapping and jutting out. She took hours on arranging the bouquet in her exotic display. She always worried over the trivial things, making this or that was in it's perfect spot. She always took the time to look at various places for each flower, making sure it was pleasing to the eye. She just wished the petals were more strong, she didn't like when they flopped around, or slid back to their previous place.

When she was done, she pushed the table to the corner of the room, to wait for her assistant to deliver them. Looking at the wonderful display once more, she let the feeling of satisfaction sweep over her. She had no reason to worry about her magnificent skills as a florist, after all.

She went to wash her body off of all the sticky residue, before slipping down in her bed for the night. She laid with her thoughts for a while, wondering why her family no longer wished to talk to her; her husband they disapproved of was dead. She left no reason for them not to be in her life anymore. She even sent their favourite flowers to them. She also wondered why her friends no longer came to visit, how they no longer cared.

She was getting depressed by herself; she had no one to talk to her, to listen. She didn't have the nerve to ask her assistant to stick around, for she thought he wouldn't be interested. He didn't even ask her if the flowers were for the correct address, the correct style. He just carted them out to their next destination.

Thinking on her work, she always wondered if it was perfect enough. She had her dreams of being the best florist around, even though she's never really seen the work of the others. She never paid attention to those. It was like her mind was on one track, she couldn't deviate her thoughts once she set to work.

She sighed over her boring life, and let her eyes rest. She had a lot of work to do tomorrow if she was to get the orders done.

..

Looking through the one-sided glass, the group of Death Eaters watched their most valued 'torturer,' Hermione Granger. She had been held captive for over ten years now. Living in her own false sense of reality. For some reason, she had led herself to believe that she was a florist, carefully setting up wondrous bouquets. She must have blocked out that she was working on real people, slowly killing them, licking their blood that seeped out. That was their favourite part almost, watching as she suckled at their life force, drip by drip, never knowing it was really blood on her hands They watched as she worked on Muggle after Muggle, and eventually her own friends.

The Dark Lord loved his protegee, how she was so delicate, and precise with her mutilations. She always started with the fingers, then the toes, followed by layers and layers of flesh. Splayed and arranged in beautiful arrangements; he always hung up her work for the wizarding world to see, right in the middle of Diagon Alley. Of course, not everyone was appreciative of her work, so once he heard of any disagreements he always sent them to see her. Surprisingly, he never heard a negative word from them again, but, that might be because he had their tongue. Or, because they didn't last very long on their arranged post.

He thought of letting Hermione hear their screams while she worked on them, see if she realizes what she's doing.

He had made it mandatory to put time out of his day to watch Hermione. The once tainted mudblood, now glorified executioner.

Oh yes, Voldemort did love his flowers.


End file.
